A Blaze Not Silver
by Rachel Indeed
Summary: Sequel to "The Almost Empty House." Sherlock and John have been sharing a flat at Baker Street for almost a year when Voldemort returns and the second war begins. Sherlock finds his gifts may not be suited for this battle. And John...John burns.


**Author's note:** This is a sequel to my story "The Almost Empty House." This story picks up about a year after John graduates Hogwarts; he is pursuing his education as a healer in training at St. Mungo's, while Sherlock is off to a stuttering start with his consulting detective career. This is a work in progress - I cannot promise a regular schedule for updates, but I do promise that I know where the story is going and I will not leave it unfinished. Thanks very much for reading, and I hope you'll enjoy it.

**A Blaze Not Silver**

_1995_

When John got home from lecture, his flatmate was attempting to turn himself into some unknown animal on the middle of their hearth rug, again.

Illegal Animagus experimentation seemed tailor-made for his off days. Its outside risk of horrifying disfigurement weighed in near the median on their scale of domestic perils. John hadn't even tried to put a stop to it, though he did insist on keeping a sizable bucket of water handy. Both their Patronus forms were aquatic; it stood to reason Sherlock's Animagus form might take the same bent.

"Better safe than sorry," John said. "If your inmost soul turns out to resemble a goldfish, you'll be glad I set up a place to plop you."

"Oh, listen to yourself. You know perfectly well there are no marine Animagi."

"Yeah, well, that may be natural selection at work. Who knows how many poor unrecorded idiots flopped about on their own floors and asphyxiated before they had a chance to reverse the transformation? It'd be an embarrassing epitaph, is all I'm saying."

"My blushes, John."

After running upstairs to file away his latest scrolls and store his potions kit on its customary shelf in the wardrobe, John headed back down and settled on the sofa. He riffled through the _Prophet _to catch up on the latest Quidditch standings. The Bulgarians had been struggling this season, what with their star Seeker tied up at Hogwarts in the Tri-Wizard Tournament (or Quadripartite-Wizard Tournament, as Sherlock had insisted on calling it before he'd deleted it entirely. "Honestly, is there no limit?" he'd groused. "Can wizardkind not detach from tradition long enough to count higher than three?")

John was down to the Chudley Cannons when Sherlock breathed "oh" in a tone that promised trouble. John glanced up in time to catch a flash of wide, victorious eyes, and then Sherlock popped out of existence. One second there, the next gone.

"Damn it." John folded his paper and set it on the side table, then leaned over and examined the carpet, careful not to move his feet. If Sherlock's animagus form turned out to be an insect or some other more microscopic creature, he couldn't risk crushing him accidentally. "Sherlock?" he called. "You all right there?"

A strange rustling sound a few inches overhead had John ducking instinctively, which proved helpful when the table lamp to his right toppled and exploded.

"What the hell?" John shot to his feet, one arm crooked defensively overhead. His elbow hit something solid before he was halfway off the sofa and a guttural boom sounded. The floorboards creaked and across the room a pile of books avalanched. Throwing out his other arm, John connected with what felt like flapping tarp, and then his hand, without seeking, curled around hard bone. He saw nothing beneath his fingers, yet something curved and smooth nosed at his palm, and he felt a warm exhale.

"Sherlock?"

Another guttural rumble, quieter this time, answered him.

"What on earth…" John ran his hands carefully up the empty air, tracing a narrow, elongated head. His fingers found a curve of neck far longer and thicker than any bird's, with raised, distinct vertebrae that went on and on. The wide sternum dropped to a long, skeletal leg which tapered to a hoof. He decided he was tracing the outline of a horse, which was why the first wing surprised him. Its joint hit his collarbone, and he followed its length a good two meters out to where the lamp had fallen.

"Oh, of course," he said, shaking his head with a delighted double-blink. "You maniac. You're a great bloody thestral, aren't you?" The wing shifted, and John's touch charted five long bones, like fingertips, framing its membrane. The medieval drawings in their old Defense textbooks had lacked that detail. "Tall, dark, and emaciated, that's about right. Invisible 'til somebody dies, and then there you are." He laughed. "Go on, then. Can you switch back?"

There was a slight shift of hooves on carpet, and without further fanfare Sherlock reappeared, grinning. John was quite impressed, though he tried to mute his expression. "You're not in any pain?" he checked.

"Obviously not." Sherlock raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Internal organs all in their –"

"John."

John caved. "Okay, that was _brilliant_."

"I know! I couldn't have done better if the form were mine to choose. This is going to be tremendously useful!"

"Can you imagine the rooftop chases?"

Sherlock was off like a shot without further encouragement, heading straight for the skylight in their attic. John actually had to Petrify him long enough to make the point that if he wanted to learn to fly then for Merlin's sake he had better start at ground level. "Regent's Park," he suggested. Sherlock's clothes had seemed to make the transformation with him, so there was a relatively low chance John would have to bail him out for public indecency (this time). "Go practice scarpering about in an open field for a bit, learn to coordinate those two left feet. Try out the wings when you're ready, don't crash into anything expensive, and pick up a bite of takeaway on your way back."

Sherlock gave a regal sniff and swept out the front door in a tide of energy that looked a lot like happiness.

John vanished the lamp shards, restacked the books, and put the telly on.

* * *

The next morning, Mycroft stopped by.

"Ah, congratulations are in order, I see. Always nice to have another Animagus on call and off the record."

Sherlock, his head edging backward over the sofa's armrest, grunted. "I am not, nor shall I ever be, on call."

John idly tried to guess at what detail around their flat had provided the evidence. Was there a wet patch under the grate where he'd emptied the water bucket now it was no longer needed? A faint impression of hoofprints on their carpet? Why not?

"You've always had an equine look about you, now I come to think of it. Quite coltish in your youth."

"As opposed to you," Sherlock said sweetly. "Quite asinine in your age."

John sighed.

Mycroft sat in John's chair, hooking his umbrella on the armrest. He pulled out a small envelope from his jacket pocket, lifting it in John's direction rather than Sherlock's.

"Don't take that," Sherlock ordered as John started across the room.

Ignoring him, John took possession and found two tickets inside, which gave out an alarming burst of spontaneous confetti. He stared at them, surprised. "These are…tickets to the Third Task?"

"With my compliments," Mycroft nodded.

"The third what?" Sherlock sat up. "God, is this to do with sport?"

"It's to do with Harry Potter," John said. "The Tri-Wiz…the Quadripartite-Wizard Tournament. Told you you shouldn't have deleted it. That poor kid always pops back up. Take to assuming he's relevant, why don't you, save us both some time."

Sherlock's expression went cold. "If it's to do with Potter, it's to do with Hogwarts. Not interested."

"Oh, please," Mycroft leaned forward, waving a hand. "No one is asking…"

"Get those tickets from Dumbledore, did you?"

"What does it matter? The material point is that in any such Task, there are risks to the safety of the students involved, all the more so when one of them has been forced to compete by a person or persons unknown. The Headmaster has concerns. He'd like to have you and John on hand in case of emergency, and he is willing to pay you for it."

"I've had more than enough of Dumbledore's 'concern,' and yours."

"Despite your sad imaginings, we are not in league to run your life or sabotage your piddling little business. You're doing that just fine on your own."

"Spare me the speech."

"In the last seven months, you have worked all of two paying cases, bringing in a grand total of fifteen pounds and half a dozen free meals. You spend your days in the British Museum, your nights in the death trap of a potions lab that has taken over your kitchen, and your spare time risking bodily mutation for fun. Financially speaking, you are essentially living off John, which is hardly…"

"That's enough," John said. He stepped between them, but not before Sherlock set Mycroft's tie on fire_._ Mycroft doused it with the flick of a finger, looking bored.

"Someday, brother, you are going to have to grow up."

"Someday, brother, you are going to notice that I did so a long time ago, and quite without you."

Mycroft's mouth pinched down. He was a very subtle actor; his mild unhappiness and disapproval seemed so natural it was hard to disbelieve. As ever, John felt unable to judge his agenda.

"Right then," John said. "Mycroft, pleasure. Kindly close the door on your way out, there's a draught. Oh, and better take Sherlock's ticket back before he burns it. I'll be using mine, so tell Dumbledore thanks for me."

Sherlock shied a foot to the right, shocked. "John!"

"I like money," John said placidly. "Besides, if Dumbledore thinks something might go wrong, I want to be there. These are kids we're talking about."

"That's not what we're talking about at all."

"It's what the less self-obsessed among us are talking about, which I guess leaves me."

John stuck his ticket to the mantel with Sherlock's jackknife and puttered off to review the properties of bezoar-resistant poisons. He had an exam on Thursday.

Mycroft showed himself out. Sherlock boiled a potion that smelled of rotten egg. No doubt each thought this constituted victory.

* * *

The afternoon John left for the tournament, Sherlock made a point to be loudly engaged in talking over a case with his one and only contact in the Auror Department. Unfortunately, Lestrade had been trained and certified for just five months; his most exciting assignment so far had involved noise reports near Mad-Eye Moody's backyard. Venturing into said backyard had been physically harrowing, but hardly mentally stimulating.

Still, this case sounded like grand larceny, at least, and Sherlock was in fine form. "Of course he could have taken it. Why are you arguing this with me?"

Lestrade frowned from the fireplace, looking uncomfortable; the Floo wasn't designed to make things easy on his dodgy knee. "I'm arguing because he has an airtight alibi – oh, hey John."

"Hey Greg."

"Don't talk to me about alibis. Utterly worthless data based on outmoded investigative technique. When are you going to get it through your head that black market time-turners are a dime a dozen in London? Anyone could be in two places at once."

"Yeah, yeah. But just because someone could hypothetically have a time-turner doesn't mean I can ignore obvious evidence in his favor. Unless you can find me the bloody thing, I have to assume he moves through space and time just like the rest of us. Where're you off to, John?"

"Tri-Wizard Tournament."

"Are you serious?"

"Mycroft got me tickets."

"Good on you, mate!"

"I'm _working_ here," Sherlock snapped, "as are you, Lestrade. I'm willing to devote twenty minutes of my day to the mind-numbing task of retrieving Matthews' time-turner from its obvious hiding place, if you for your part will actually run every item I collected on scene through third-tier forensic analysis. The staff in your joke of a department always stop after second-tier spellwork, which makes their data useless. Text me when you have something, and stay out of my fireplace from now on if you know what's good for you. I'm using it for experimental potion-brewing."

"He is not."

"Shut up, John."

"Have fun, then," Lestrade called, ducking out of the grate before Sherlock could scuff enough ash in his direction to mess up his jacket.

John waited by the door while Sherlock pretended not to see him; standard tactics for a mild row. They fell into step heading down the stairs and paused together at the worn patch of carpet in the corridor where they always apparated out. It felt strange to be heading in different directions this time.

"Good luck with the thief," John said before Sherlock had a chance to vanish. "Can't wait to hear about it."

Sherlock held still in that way he had that meant he was gritting his teeth without moving his jaw. Hard to do, really. "Come with me," he said.

John smiled. "Wish I could."

"Fine." Sherlock's coat flared as he spun and disappeared.

"You'd have been bored stiff at this thing anyway," John added, and went to the Third Task.

* * *

Cyrus Matthews had built his career by relying on Felix Felicis to override his natural mediocrity. Like most addicts, he began with a series of spectacular windfalls, which grew progressively less spectacular as his body built up resistance to the potion and his neural pathways narrowed into ruts of paranoia and pleasure-seeking. His finances had reached the point of insolvency, but since he was self-employed this had so far been easy to hide.

His cheerful, oblivious drinking buddies gave him plenty of excuses to go down the pub, run to the gents, swallow another hit and then play at daylight robbery. A cheap, unregistered time-turner ensured that he could burgle his mates' flats a quarter hour later in the day and then pop back and pick up right where he'd left off, buying a fresh round to keep them occupied long enough to set up his alibi.

It was a stupid, simple system which left clear patterns that would have gotten him caught eventually. He was an idiot, hardly a worthy stepping stone in the career of Sherlock Holmes. Nevertheless, his metabolic system wasn't quite inured to the bursts of luck that Felix provided, which meant that when Sherlock showed up at his pub to retrieve the time turner from its little bag taped inside the toilet tank, Matthews was already there and about to dispose of the evidence.

In the resulting scuffle Matthews avoided the wet tiles on the floor which sent Sherlock sprawling, and then ran untouched through London traffic. Sherlock eventually caught up in Charing Cross station, where an over-the-shoulder _reducto _from Matthews managed to knock out his left canine.

That appeared to be the last sputter Felix could manage on behalf of the oaf, who tripped over a baggage carrel not half a minute later and lost his wand. Sherlock was not gentle with the hexes he used to immobilize him, not remotely. The whole left side of Sherlock's face had swelled up, and though a numbing spell softened the pain, his mouth kept filling with blood.

This rendered him effectively mute, and the Aurors took full advantage of that when they arrived to make the arrest. They shut him out quite effectively, acting as though Matthews had tied _himself_ up with the incriminating time-turner. In a brief break between obliviating Muggles, Lestrade wandered over from his usual spot in the back of the squad to give Sherlock a bit of ice and an apologetic shrug. So ended his most successful case to date.

John had missed the whole thing.

Sherlock had lost enough blood to feel light-headed, which made apparating home a poor decision. He retched on the carpet. John was still out, so Sherlock made a mess of the medicine cabinet, knocking bottles into the sink and leaving puddles of Pepper-Up to dye the porcelain dark. He spent an excruciating twenty minutes rinsing his mouth with salt water, then dribbled Skelegrow into the empty cyst where his tooth had come out. It would take most of the night to grow back. A rotten end to a rotten day.

It was late when Sherlock heard the crack of apparition downstairs. He was on the sofa with a packet of frozen carrots against his face and felt almost too tired to take out his mood on John. He wanted to sleep; that never happened.

John's tread was fast on the stairs.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock heard him catch himself on the doorframe at the landing. "I saw blood on the floor downstairs. Are you all right? God, what happened?"

Sherlock groaned. John couldn't reasonably have expected him to scourgify the carpet. A bit of bloody vomit was hardly the worst welcome mat Sherlock had ever laid out. But John was already leaning over him, checking his face and scanning for other injuries; he looked scared.

At that, Sherlock sat up and focused. Fear was an uncommon guest at 221B, and always intriguing.

"I'm fine, stop – what is it, John?" His voice was slurred and half his face still numb. "I lost a tooth, it's nothing. Let me look at you a minute, then tell me what's gone wrong."

John was pale with sweat standing on his upper lip and temples. If he didn't sit down and breathe deep he was going to be sick. Sherlock tugged him onto the sofa and pushed on the back of his neck. "Get your head between your knees. There, go on." John bent over and worked on slowing his breathing. Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder, rubbed slightly, and catalogued.

"Don't try and talk, it's fine. I've told you before that the knees are the most informative feature of man, apart perhaps from hands. You've been kneeling on the grass, leaning over someone prone. Your sleeve is ripped, your shoes scuffed, the left more than the right, jaw bruised. Your first assailant was right-handed, thick fingers, no rings, but it wasn't combat, he slapped you instead of punching. Then someone else, heavy, strong, hit you from behind with a staff or cane. Something horrible happened to that second man, you've gone tense with…what, guilt? Don't turn your head, please, keep looking this way. You can be sick on me if you need to, I've never liked this dressing gown."

"Stop," John said. "I just…I need a minute, I need you to be quiet now."

Sherlock sat still, and John did not get sick on him.

"Okay," John said. "Okay. You can finish."

"Glass of water?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock filled a mug from the tap and wetted a dish towel while he was up. He handed John the towel to wipe his face and put the water on the coffee table, then returned to his side of the sofa and pressed the carrot bag back to his jaw.

"You've recently cast a Patronus charm," he picked up. "It makes the hair at the back of your head stand up, did you know? Like you've been rubbing your head against a balloon. You've dosed yourself with chocolate, you've encountered a very large black dog, and you look like you've aged five years since this morning. You've been to hospital, most likely the morgue, and when you went to the loo you scrubbed your face, which was sticky because you'd been crying."

"I wasn't crying," John said blankly.

"You weren't noticing."

John frowned vaguely and shook his head, but said, "Okay."

"Who died?"

John shut his eyes and covered them.

"John, I won't ask many questions. I see the outline already but I need the specifics. There's no point drawing this out. Who died?"

"Cedric Diggory."

The name meant nothing to Sherlock.

"One of the kids, in the tournament." Sherlock was nineteen, John just twenty; John labeled everyone younger a child. "He was gone, he…was gone when I got to him, but his eyes were open and I tried. There was nothing…his dad hit me when I told him there was nothing I could do. Right handed, thick fingers, no rings. Well done."

"And the cane? Who else hit you?"

John pulled himself together and fixed his eyes ahead. "I was in the stands when Potter port-keyed in. He was bleeding, hanging tight to Diggory. I got to them as fast as I could and tried resuscitation for a minute or two, like I said, but it was no good. Cedric's Da was screaming, he hit me and Dumbledore pulled him away, and I looked around for Potter. He was gone, but he'd been bleeding and he left a trail. I caught up to him on the way to the castle with Moody – told me he wasn't letting anyone near Harry until we figured out what was going on. I told him Harry needed medical attention and that he was insane to try and take him away from Dumbledore. I took Harry's arm and turned around, and Moody bashed my head with his staff. I yelled at Harry to run – he didn't, of course. Threw himself at Moody, got knocked over, and the bastard started to cast an Avada before I kicked his leg out. He went down, and Harry and I both wound up casting stunners. Between us we knocked him cold."

Sherlock nodded. "Paranoia is certainly Moody's style, but not cowardice. He doesn't attack from behind, and he was one of the few Aurors who never resorted to Unforgivables in the field, even during the height of the war. Polyjuice Potion, I take it?"

"Exactly."

"So who was he really?"

John seemed to brace himself. "Barty Crouch, Junior."

Sherlock lit up from the inside. "Fantastic! I _always said_ he was the brains of the Lestrange operation, but this ranks as a tour de force. To escape Azkaban, fake his own death, and masquerade for months under Dumbledore's nose…his nerve and his knowledge were more spectacular than even I had guessed! And to think that I missed him! I know you tried, John, but I could wish your Patronus had moved a little faster. That soul was a more intricate feast than the Dementors deserved. I doubt they appreciated him the way I would have."

John's eyes turned abruptly horrified. He sicked up all over himself.

"Oh." Sherlock knelt next to John, hands hovering. "I'm sorry, honestly. I forgot that you'd be so affected." He passed his wand over the mess on John's clothes, the sofa and the carpet, leaving the fabrics clear and infusing a light scent of darjeeling to help settle John's stomach.

"All right," John grunted, waving Sherlock off, still bent over his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm actually glad I didn't have to tell you that bit."

"You've had enough for tonight," Sherlock said. "Get some sleep. You can tell me the rest in the morning."

John shook his head. "No."

"Enough," Sherlock insisted, but John grabbed his arm.

"_Voldemort's back_."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, that's hardly surprising."

John stared at him.

"You already told me that the most fanatically clever Death Eater on record has been masquerading at Hogwarts all year. If he'd wanted Potter dead he had months to kill him before now. Clearly he was planning to use the boy to accomplish some goal of his own, yet he tried to cast an Avada at him tonight which indicates that the goal has been achieved. It doesn't take a great deal of imagination to guess what that goal might have been. Death Eaters tend to have only two registers: fanatically loyal or utterly self-serving. Crouch was type one. Clearly he devised a way to port-key the prophecy child off for a bout of dark magic. I assume the results were spectacular."

John was no longer capable of forming words.

"Bed," Sherlock repeated, nudging John off the sofa.

John gave up, stumbled up to his room, and was out in a matter of minutes. He could deal with Sherlock in the morning. Sherlock and the war.


End file.
